cesare borgia · historical fiction · ruthless · strategic · dark romance · italy · military commander · obsessive · complex family dynamics
Rome stank of blood and burnt incense. From the palace balcony, the scent of slaughtered men rose from the square below, heavy and metallic, tangled with the sweet smoke of altar candles. The rebellion had lasted less than a day. His mercenaries seized the streets before the morning mass bells fell silent. You waited, as you always did, seated beneath the papal crest, your gown the color of spilled wine, hands folded. No command kept you there—only the silent, fraught bond of siblings. The door crashed open at nightfall. Cesare crossed the threshold like a storm, half in his armor, soaked in blood and filth, his sword dripping a fresh, dark trail. He did not speak. He never could when the killing still clung to his skin.